Scraped
by Ersatz.Love
Summary: If L didn't fight god, he'd fight the devil instead. But how can you fight something that's destroying you from the inside out? -- Rated M for adult content and gruesome imagery. Chapter 3 up!
1. Three Years of Famine

"Where've you been, Ryuk?"

"Eh?" The pale shinigami paused upon being spoken to, turning his attention to the lesser-ranked god of death nearby. The cloaked and bandaged figure came a little closer, but still kept his distance, eying him warily.

"Down in the human world," Ryuk responded. "Thought I'd do a little something different to try and ease the boredom."

Sidoh blinked once and tilted his head.

"Did it work?"

"Nope."

"Ah...that's too bad." Sidoh paused, glancing in the direction from which Ryuk had come. "You didn't happen to find a lost notebook down there, did you?"

Ryuk stared for a few seconds, expression as unreadable and freaky as ever.

"Nope."

"Ah...that's too bad." The wrapped shinigami paused, realizing he'd repeated himself, and felt even more awkward when Ryuk simply turned to leave. "Um...if you happen to find one, could you let me know?"

"Sure thing."

Ryuk kept walking.

It really was too bad -- it had almost worked out. If only it had been picked up by someone with a longer lifespan, maybe he would have gotten some entertainment out of it. One could never predict what those humans would do with it, after all. The most he could do was simply watch from a distance.

It was kind of interesting, actually -- he was pretty curious as to how the kid would die. Sometime on the way to the young man's house, the death god paused in confusion, turning to see just who it was that was following them. At first he thought it was another shinigami, judging from the feel of the presence alone, but first glance revealed him to be human.

A second glance told him different.

"Dropped your notebook?" the other man casually asked. Ryuk stared, somewhat stunned that such a pathetic-looking specimen could see him. Except for the horrific burn marks all over the human's body, there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him that he could see -- not until he took a good look at his eyes. And even then, it was bizarre.

"You have the Eyes," Ryuk observed, standing aside as the man passed him by, "But not a notebook. And your lifespan..."

"I don't know what I am either." His voice dropped to a mumble so his quarry wouldn't be able to hear. "But I can tell you what I _will_ be."

Ryuk glanced at the young man he was originally following, watching the counter run down closer to zero. '_Ah, so he's going to kill him,'_ he thought, wings lazily flapping as he took in the scene before him. It had always struck him as bizarre, the petty reasons for which humans killed other humans, and sometimes their methods of murder disturbed him even. How gruesome would it turn out this time?

"What's that?"

"Number one."

~*~

"Drugged, strangled, and nailed to a wall. The cause of death was determined to be from the strangulation. No mutilation occurred either pre-mortem or post-mortem, except for the nails."

"I see. The body does appear to be untouched but for the obvious. It's...not his usual style."

The other end of the line went quiet for a short while. The bright, flickering computer screen before him provided the only source of light in the room, and yet the pictures he was currently viewing all but cancelled out that effect entirely, filling the room with an aura of heavy darkness. He clicked through them, examining each one carefully before moving on to the next. He wanted to be able to pick them apart pixel by pixel, but until he could hang up all he was able to do was scan through them for the obvious clues.

"Are you sure it's not just a copycat? There were a few of them after the press got a hold of the Los Angeles cases..."

"I have considered that," he replied, glancing over the last of the injury close-ups before returning to the main picture of the crime scene. The victim was found in a Christ-like pose, arms spread wide and parallel to the ground, held up by four nails in each arm -- hands, forearms, biceps, and shoulders. A ninth nail was driven through his feet, keeping them from dangling. There was no sign of a struggle according to the autopsy, suggesting that the drug had done its job in keeping the victim sedated.

The troublesome part was what hung from each of the nine nails.

"I mean, it's not like Wara Ningyo are difficult to get a hold of..."

"Yes, but the rest were amateurs." His tone was cold, holding no admiration or indication that he was impressed. "This is too...professional. Too clean." As if a murder could be clean.

"...That's what I was thinking, too. I...when I got the pictures, I got the same sort of...chill."

"So you can see why I asked for your assistance."

"Yes. And I will do my best to help this time as well."

"Thank you." He paused, bringing up a few new windows, the morbid pictures replaced by walls of text from various documents and reports. "Understand that this case will be more dangerous than the last. I apologize for getting you involved again."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's what I do." The woman's voice crackled out as the signal briefly faded, then returned. "And you know that if there's any way I can be of use, I'll do it."

He paused again, bringing his thumb to his lips and idly chewing on the nail.

"For now, your best use may be to console the victim's family. I am sure they are only too willing to help, as well."

"His father has alrea..." Static. "...fered the help of the Japanese pol..."

He glanced at the speakers.

"...you there?"

"Yes, I hear you," he confirmed.

"There. Sorry, this phone's a piece of crap."

"No trouble. You were saying?"

"You know his father is expected to make a statement to the press about it, right?"

"Yes. For now..." His eyes switched from the autopsy report back to the thumbnail of the body. "Please instruct him not to mention my involvement with this case. As far as the public is concerned, this is the act of a very brazen criminal lashing out against the police."

"...Alright. And what about his offer?"

"Hm...I see no reason to forbid police involvement and a seperate investigation. After all, this is quite a slap in the face for Mr. Yagami..."

"Right. I'll make sure that any leads are passed along to you as well."

"Thank you, Miss Misora. And please pass along my gratitude for the cooperation of the Japanese police."

"Will do."

Another pause, then a click, and the conversation concluded. With a sigh, he brought the image folder up again, beginning to thoroughly examine each one. A knock diverted his attention briefly, followed by a creak and a rectangle of light surrounding him. He wasn't alarmed; he knew who it was before he even heard the footsteps. Different people had different ways of knocking.

"I've brought an evening snack," came the aged and authoritative voice, and the tinkling of porcelain as he set the tray down on the floor.

"Thank you."

"Quite welcome." Rising to leave, Watari stopped suddenly upon seeing the pictures on the screen, brow furrowing in thought. It wasn't an expression of repulsion or shock so much as it was one of disapproval, acknowledging there was something out of place -- something was there that shouldn't have been.

"I have no doubt this is his work," L said simply, reaching for one of the many sweets stacked on the tray. "He is challenging me. Again."

"I have been worried about this since the correction facility burned down." The older man straightened, staring at the screen thoughtfully. A more sorrowful expression came over his features, frown deepening, and he turned towards the door.

"It isn't your fault, Watari." Click, click, click. "These things happen. Brilliant minds go to waste every day. It was his decision..."

"I still cannot help but feel I am responsible." His slow footsteps grew softer as he reached the door. "Please do let me know if there is anything you would like."

L said nothing.

The door closed, and he was alone again.

~*~

Three years.

It had been three years since the murder of Light Yagami, son of the Japanese Chief of Police Soichiro Yagami. He was a fantastically brilliant young man that was full of aspirations, looking forward to a life of grand accomplishments. Certainly a role model for all to follow. Unfortunately, he never did get to live out his destiny. Instead he became the victim of a vendetta he had nothing to do with; an unfortunate bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Four months after his death, there was another.

"Otis Umphrey," Naomi read, flipping through a thick stack of papers and trying to make her desk look relatively organized. "Caucasian male, age twenty-seven. Five feet nine inches, one hundred eighty three pounds. Single. Worked at a law firm...are you looking at the pictures now?"

"Yes," came the masculine voice on the other end. "It's about what I expected."

"What you ex..." Naomi paused, staring at the photograph she had just picked up. He had been found spread eagle on the floor of his apartment, nailed to the floor, a Wara Ningyo on each nail. The nails had been driven through his major joints -- ankles, knees, elbows, and wrists, and the cause of death had been a little more brutal this time.

"...Drugged and made to bleed until death. That's what you expected?"

"I meant in terms of how the victim appeared."

"With each of his fingers cut off?" Naomi lowered the picture onto the desk, placing her hand over it and drumming her fingers on the desk. After a few seconds, she paused, grimacing, and protectively curled her fingers into a fist. "...Sawed off?"

"The image is a little more violent this time, isn't it?" He sounded like he was chewing on something as he spoke. "I expect the next would be a little more violent than this, as well. Provided he manages to elude us before the next one."

"Eight Wara Ningyo," she muttered, rubbing at her temple. "It's just like before. He's planning to kill nine people...why?"

"...He's sending a message."

"What message?"

The line was silent.

Apparently not even the great L knew everything.

Every four months, on the dot, for three years.

Otis Umphrey, killed in Chicago, Illinois. United States.

Aleida Roorback, killed in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. Female, age twenty-three. College student. Drugged, drowned, and beaten post-mortem, with several bone fractures in various places. The hands and feet were removed. Seven Wara Ningyo were found.

Edgar Normand, killed in Cape Town, South Africa. Male, age thirty-two. Translator-for-hire. Drugged and stabbed to death. The arms and legs were amputated from the elbows and knees down. A large gash streaked from the left ear, across the bridge of the nose, and through to the right ear. Six Wara Ningyo.

Orson Taylor, killed in Darwin, Australia. Male, age forty-five. Mechanic. Drugged, shot five times, and beaten post-mortem. The arms and legs were missing completely. Cuts and bruises were particularly heavy around the face, and a Wara Ningyo was placed over each bullet wound.

Indira Malhotra, killed in New Delhi, India. Female, age forty-one. Secretary. Drugged. Cause of death was blunt trauma to the skull, with the entire back of the skull caved inwards. The post-mortem damage to the body was much more extensive this time, again with complete amputations of the limbs, and significant bruising all over the remaining torso. Each rib was either cracked or broken, the collar bone broken in three places, and the face was beaten until it was almost unrecognizable. Four Wara Ningyo were found.

Miguel Olivares, killed in Rio de Janiro, Brazil. Male, age thirty-two. Jeweller. Drugged and electrocuted, though the exact means of the electrocution is unknown. Post-mortem damage left the body almost completely unrecognizable; the body had to be identified via dental records. After the limbs were removed they were further cut at each joint and placed at various areas throughout the victim's apartment. The torso was found in the oven, burnt to a crisp, and the head had been removed and placed on the pillow of his bed, eyes and tongue and most of the facial tissue removed. A Wara Ningyo was placed in each eye socket and the mouth.

Roman Tarasov, killed in St. Petersburg, Russia, was the only one whose cause of death could not be determined. Male, age twenty-eight. Fisherman. It is assumed that he was drugged before his death, but there was little left of his body to examine upon discovery; all that was found in his home was a large container of hydrofluoric acid, which held evidence of organic tissue inside of it, and Tarasov's hands, found palms-up beneath a wall-mounted crucifix, as if in supplication. A Wara Ningyo was placed in each palm.

Almost three years since the death of the first victim.

One day to go, and they were still too many steps behind. Certainly they had their clues -- the way the victim's initials lined up was no coincidence, and L had expected such a thing from the start. However, the murders still didn't have enough of a link between them to tip off as to _where_ the next murder would take place, let alone who was being targeted. The pattern of names and ages narrowed it down, but the location of the murders and what the victims had in common (that is, absolutely nothing) only complicated things.

The most obvious message he had sent was that he could kill anywhere, on any continent, at any time, without hinderance. He had power. The first hint was in the initials of those killed; the message had narrowed the search down to any and all individuals with the initials A.L., with a high possibility that the target was female (following the male-male-female pattern). The second hint was in the ages. The next victim would likely be either nineteen, thirty-seven, twenty-four, thirty-two, fifteen, or forty-one years of age.

They had no idea where he would strike next.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," Naomi sighed in exasperation, dropping the last manila envelope onto her disaster zone of a desk. "I have spent the last two days going through these, without even so much as a nap, and I can't think of _anything. _I'm exhausted."

There was nothing on the other line to indicate anyone was listening, except for the clicking of a mouse and the ever-present sound of chewing.

"What a monster..." She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. "Each case just gets worse and worse. I can't even think of how the next one will be found..."

"There will not be a next one," L insisted, before shovelling another food item into his mouth. "I...mm...haven't given up hope. Not yet."

"It's impossible. Even if we do figure it out at the last second, how're we gonna get there in time to prevent it? I mean, if we're lucky, we could get the government to section off its borders or tighten security in hopes that we catch him, but..."

"Please, keep your spirits up. We cannot focus our thoughts on failure. Not yet."

Naomi sighed again.

"China," she voiced after a while. "He hasn't hit China yet. Or Canada. Or the Middle East..."

"Excuse me for one second."

She was put on hold. After waiting a good two minutes, she put the phone down on her desk, putting it on speaker and leaning back again. She closed her eyes. Damn, did she need a nap.

If only L knew what such relaxation was like.

"Misora!"

She jolted forwards so fast she almost fell out of her chair.

"What? What is it?"

"Get to the airport and book the next departing flight to England as fast as you can. I will reimburse the expenses later."

"You've figured it out? Who is it? Where in England?"

"Winchester."

And then the line went dead.


	2. Three Months to Flee

It was all so surreal. Like setting fire to photos of your childhood.

He'd considered it everytime he visited -- the thought that once he left, the house would no longer exist. It was a rather selfish thought, but it was one that stayed in the back of his mind every waking hour of every day. Certainly the children were safer in his absence than in his presence, but every time he left -- every time the glossy tinted windows of his car rolled up to obscure his face from the eager children that peered out from behind the iron gates -- he'd peer back, wondering if he'd see them again. If the age-worn brick and mortar would still be there next time he came back.

If he ever came back.

It was inevitable.

"Shit, we're too late--!"

L simply stood by the iron gate, left open in panic, while Naomi raced towards the wreckage. The distinct smell of gasoline lingered in the air, mixed with somewhat unidentifiable scents of stale citrus and artificial freshener. Cat litter. But the air was already clean of the black smoke -- as clean as England's air ever got, anyway -- and the embers had long smoldered out, leaving an unsettling cold where they used to burn.

There was no point in dwelling on a sentiment like 'we're too late.' They had been too late from the moment L received the call.

"Sixteen hours late," he whispered, taking a step forward. He stopped.

It was surreal. Like looking at the smudges left by an eraser.

There were memories in every inch of the place. It had rained recently, and the still-damp ground was marked all over with footprints. The ones he could make out clearly, he could actually assign a face; he knew which ones wore Reeboks and which ones preferred the simplicity of canvas sneakers. Their sizes. Whether they treaded lightly, careful in their step, or simply pranced around without much of a care. Over there, by the eighth fence stake, someone had written in the mud, practicing their handwriting. The letter L, written over and over again, in Cloister Black.

"Ryuzaki, there..."

Naomi was shifting through what was left. Most of the building's skeleton still stood, though the rooms inside were long gone, either burnt out completely or crushed when the second and third floors caved in. Skeletons of furniture, the well-worn couches devoid of their fabric and cushioning, the few wooden chairs that defiantly stood on legs of ash, the melted plastic where the TV used to be...

There weren't any other skeletons.

"...there's nothing here."

L stared at the writing in the mud, wondering where the stick was.

"Does this mean they made it out?" She lifted a plank of wood with her boot, moving a little less delicately as hope settled in. No bodies. No bodies, thank God. "Did we make it in time after all?"

When Naomi glanced back at him, he was standing about twenty feet from where he was before, still in the same position, but with a much more unsettling expression. She couldn't quite see what he was looking at, so she carefully navigated her way out of the rubble, crossing the grounds to stand by his side.

He'd found the stick.

A simple broken branch, sticking up from the bottom horn of another 'L,' splintered at the end where it was taken from the tree. A single nail was pushed into the top of it, and from the nail there hung a thin gold chain with a small heart-shaped locket. The last Wara Ningyo was perched proudly on the splinters.

"...Ryuzaki?"

L turned and walked away.

"Ryuzaki, what about--?!" Naomi whirled on him, reaching out to grab him by the sleeve. "They could still be alive, couldn't they?"

"We will not find her body," he muttered softly, as if talking to himself. Naomi's grip weakened from that tone, and he continued walking when she released his sleeve.

"...Y..You're not giving up, are you?" She hesitated, glancing back at the stick, and briefly considered grabbing the locket. But the eyeless Wara Ningyo peered at her as if in warning; as if touching the locket that hung beneath it might bring worse luck. As if she were the demon, the Wara Ningyo warded her off. She returned to L's side.

"We can still catch him. We can still--"

"I fully intend to bring him to justice, Miss Misora." L's voice was calm and emotionless as ever as he approached the car, not even bothering to look at Watari as the older man opened the door for him. She stopped, mouth hanging open slightly, and sent Watari a perplexed look. He returned it with his usual solemnity.

"...But what..? Ryuzaki, you aren't being open with me here. I don't even know his target's _name,_ let alone whether they are alive or de--"

"Alice Lindberg," he stated matter-of-factly, rolling up the window.

"Who was Alice Li--"

"She was going to be A."

Her reflection in the black glass.

~*~

Three months and no word from Roger.

Of course Naomi didn't know what it meant; she was not familiar with Wammy's House or its residents. She was not familiar with how well-connected Quillish Wammy was, or how quickly he'd be able to move an entire orphanage out of town, out of country, out of continent. In the chaos that occurred after the deciding phone call, it was somewhat surprising that there was only one loss. Then again, after 2002, emergency procedures had been changed. They almost saw it coming.

Almost.

Perhaps they were too confident; even behind bars, he never should have been thought of as a neutralized threat. Even after the fire, in which seventy-one inmates died -- almost all of whom had been completely burnt to ashes -- they had only _assumed_. Without any physical bodies to confirm as dead, the prison overseers used process of elimination instead, flipping through the records and checking to see which inmates had not made it to the other end of the compound or to the nearest hospital. Exactly seventy-one were missing, and each of them had been housed at the center of the explosion, where the intensity of the fire was determined to be the greatest. None of those seventy-one could have survived, they said. No human being possibly could.

"Only a god," they said.

Surreal, like a reoccurring nightmare.

It was sort of uncanny how he'd escaped. Twice Death had come for him, twice he had come close enough to feel the flames of Hell itself licking at his flesh -- and twice he escaped, allowing everyone else around him to be swallowed into the depths of oblivion in his place. And now it was clear enough: it wasn't a god L was up against. It was the devil himself.

Three months, and no word from Roger. No word on the status of any of the orphans who had managed to escape. Possibly more distressing was the realization that he _didn't_ have a firm grasp on everything related to his former home; there were still a couple of variables that had an impact on the outcome of this case, and as the details became clearer, he realized he couldn't let those variables remain obscure.

Asking "where is he?" was no longer sufficient. Right now, the question looked more like "where are _they?_"

Unfortunately, that question proved to be almost equally difficult.

"There's nothing, Ryuzaki. Nothing. It's like they never existed." Back at her apartment, Naomi collapsed on her couch, phone jammed between her ear and shoulder and a heavy folder spread across her arms. It was actually quite amazing how much paper the government liked to waste, presenting their records as they did. Surrounded by three separate piles of such folders, each one coming up at least to her knees, she wondered idly if this was what Ryuzaki's room looked like.

"That is not surprising in the least," the electronic voice responded. "I assume you have exhausted all of your resources, then."

Naomi paused.

"You're not just sending me on a wild goose hunt, are you?"

"If they have covered their tracks well enough to make you question their existence, then I must say I'm rather proud of them."

Naomi frowned and threw the folder to the floor in frustration.

"In that case, I'd like our investigation to be handled a little bit differently," he continued. "One moment."

Silence reigned for all of thirty seconds. Boy, Naomi sure loved being put on hold.

"Miss Misora."

"Yeah."

"Please destroy any and all of the records that have come into your possession during the past three months."

She stared at the piles of paper in shock. All those dead trees.

"They don't make shredders big enough."

"I need not remind you how sensitive this information is." The humor was lost on L. "In any case, from here on out I would like you to shift your attention to various postal services used throughout the United States. Specifically, I would like for you to track certain specific items being shipped."

"And just what would those specific items be?" She was already gathering and stacking the papers in preparation for a few long hours of paper shredding and subsequent burning.

"Large quantities of Lucky Strike cigarettes, and equally large quantities of Ritter Sport chocolate, of the Vollmilch variety."

Naomi's expression crinkled into an offended sort of disbelief that can only really be described as _what the fuck?_

"...Chocolate and cigarettes?"

"Lucky Strike and Ritter Sport," he corrected, emphasizing the specificity. "Shipped to the same location."

"I think I'm missing the point here, but what exactly do chocolate and cigarettes have to do with the guys you're looking for?"

"They have _everything_ to do with them."

~*~

Bullshit.

"Why me?" seemed to be the question of the day, if Naomi's constant inner mantra was any indication. Driving around on her bike for a few hours would generally be a pleasurable activity if it weren't for Los Angeles traffic and heat and the fact that she still felt like L was just screwing with her head. After receiving her latest orders, it wasn't long before she managed to pin down a few leads, though they were all dead ends. And this one didn't seem like it was much different.

Still, L's orders.

Pulling up in the empty parking lot behind the store, Naomi briefly checked to see that it was the right address before parking her bike and heading in. It would actually have been a fairly large store if the shelves weren't all crammed together so close that only one person could fit in the aisles at a time. The windows and doors were completely covered with signs and pamphlets, making it impossible to see the inside until she entered, and the smell of curry was so strong it made Naomi's eyes water. It was stifling. Claustrophobic.

Her eyes glanced towards the shopkeeper, who was already regarding her with suspicious black eyes. His expression lifted only slightly upon catching her gaze, now looking at her nervously, as if he already knew she wasn't here to buy imported Indian food. She donned a fake smile and approached.

"Hello -- could I speak to the manager?"

"I am the manager," the shorter man spoke through his mustache, each word speared by his thick accent. "How can I help you?"

Naomi flashed her FBI badge and introduced herself, and the man seemed immediately alarmed.

"I just want to ask you a few questions," she tried to reassure, taking a slightly more relaxed pose. He still seemed nervous, now glancing around the store as if expecting an entire SWAT team to come bursting out of packages of naan. Probably involved in more than one illicit activity, she reasoned, but she wasn't going to bust him on that. Not now, anyway.

"I not get involve in crime, I am not criminal," he practically stuttered, a light sweat breaking under the dirty incandescant lights.

"I'm not saying you are," Naomi replied calmly, shifting her gaze to around the store so as to maybe put him more at ease. After a second of hesitation, she decided to get to the point. "You know, I never would have guessed chocolate was so popular in Indian cuisine."

He floundered for a moment, clearly confused, but kept quiet.

"Are you licensed to sell tobacco products here?"

"..I...is there reason for ask question?"

"According to my records, you have been receiving large quantities of German chocolate and Lucky Strike cigarettes. But I don't see them for sale..." Her gaze locked back on him. "And the numbers are too great to suggest personal use."

"I, er, well," he hesitated, shifting his weight back and forth and wringing his hands. "They not mine."

"Then whose--"

"It illegal for chocolate and cigarettes come here?"

"No, no. I just want to know where it's going to." Glancing over, she picked up a small package of what seemed to be some sort of gelatinous confectionary and idly began to examine it. "So if you're not the one buying them, why are they being shipped here?"

"They..." More hesitation. "Young man pick them up every week. I not know who is or where go."

"What's he look like?"

"He..." It was like pulling teeth with this guy. He checked his watch. "I am not involve. He come here today. I am not involve."

"Okay, okay -- I believe you. When did he come in?"

"Tree-tirty, I am not involve."

_Three-thirty._ She checked the time on her cellphone. _So he'll be here in twenty minutes._

"Thank you for your cooperation." She smiled, looking at the bag of candies once more, and put it on the counter. "How much for these?"

~*~

It was three-thirty on the dot when a sleek black Corvette rolled up in the empty parking lot. Pretending to examine the map that was sprawled over the front of her bike, Naomi watched from across the street as a bizarrely-dressed young man exited the vehicle and approached the back door. Two knocks, and the door opened, the shopkeeper wheeling out a couple of large boxes on a handcart and handing it over to the young man. After loading them into the trunk (_That tiny car can hold that many boxes? Wow...)_, the stranger made as if to leave, until the shopkeeper grabbed him by the sleeve to stop him.

_Crap._

They had a brief conversation, seemingly quite serious, before the shopkeeper nodded and bowed several times and then retreated back into the store. Naomi folded the map and put it away, watching the man for a few more seconds before pulling up two spaces away.

He was watching her, too.

"Hey there," she called, parking and getting off the bike. Getting a better look at him now, she was immediately struck by just how bizarre his get-up actually was. Winter clothing in _this_ heat? He wasn't very good at keeping low profile. Especially not with those goggles.

"Nice weather, isn't it?"

He said nothing, expression unchanging, but took a step back towards the driver's side. She hesitated, again putting on a false smile, trying to put him at ease.

"What's your name?"

Another step. Her smile faltered.

"...I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind. My name is Naomi Misora.." She pulled out her FBI badge.

He pulled out a gun.

It surprised even Naomi how fast she could move, diving behind the nearest dumpster and retrieving her own weapon. Gunshots rang out in her wake, two bullets hitting the asphalt and three hitting the dumpster -- one barely grazing her ear. The silence afterwards was thick with tension, cut by the sound of the car door opening and slamming shut, the engine revving. Standing from her position, she took aim and fired, hitting the tinted windshield once, twice, three times -- but it didn't stop the car.

"Damn it!" Running to her bike, she kicked it into gear, not even bothering to put her helmet on, and the chase began.


	3. By the Sword of God

A/N: Hallo there! Just wanted to give shout out to those who've read, favorite'd, and reviewed this fic so far! Thank you for your support! And a big thank you to my friends Axie L. Kiryuu (GOREADHERSTUFFRIGHTNOW) and my non-FFnet buddy Erin for proofreading and giving me feedback on my stuff. Much love!

Any and all feedback and criticism is totally appreciated, so please R&R! Thanks again, and enjoy!

~*~

Seventy miles per hour.

Los Angeles traffic was in general pretty terrible, and very much a hassle when one had someplace to go. It was especially terrible when you were gunning your motorcycle at an obscene speed in an attempt to keep up with a target you can't afford to lose.

Eighty miles per hour.

Corvettes have a reputation for being fast cars, and this guy apparently knew how to handle them well. It took all of her efforts for Naomi to stay with him as he pulled sharp turns, weaving in and out of traffic effortlessly, hitting up back roads and shortcuts Naomi had no knowledge of. There didn't seem to be a pattern to his movements -- if anything, it was as if he were trying to confuse her, to throw her off his track. Considering how little she knew about this particular area of Los Angeles, it seemed to be working; she couldn't very well construct a mental map of where they were going and where they had been when she had to focus on keeping him in her sights.

Ninety hours per hour.

And the bastard had the audacity to use his cellphone while he was at it. She could bust him for that.

Up ahead, a four-way intersection, red light. It was empty. He was going to barrel through it, she was certain; and without all the congestion, Naomi could worry less about tight turns and lane shifting and focus on catching up instead. She gunned it.

Mistake.

The Corvette's tires screeched deafeningly as its driver swung a sudden left, turning the car a complete one-eighty and coming to a near-instant stop. Naomi jerked the handlebars to the side, steering her bike just enough to miss him. A shot rang out -- missed, but her arm stung; it had hit the chassis close enough for the shrapnel to actually do damage. She hit the brakes, taking the tightest turn she knew she could manage without spinning out completely, and faced the opposite direction in time to see the Corvette's tail end disappear around the corner.

She'd catch up.

She took a more indirect route, heading down the road they had just come and taking the next right. A few blocks, another right, now about at the speed she was before. Another right, and she pulled out just ahead of the Corvette, turning to face it. The car braked suddenly, slowing, but continued. Playing chicken. She'd call his bluff.

He called hers. Another near-miss.

_What the hell am I doing?!_

It had to stop. On his tail again, she reached for her gun, slowing to a point to where she could handle the bike and the gun at the same time. The first shot hit the back windshield, startling the driver enough to cause him to fishtail for all of two seconds. The second took out the right tail light. The third took out a rear tire.

In a move she was certain could only happen in the movies, he pulled the same trick -- spinning the car a full one-eighty degrees in the middle of the street -- and started driving in reverse. He leaned out the driver's side window, one long-sleeved arm aiming his gun directly at her. He fired.

An eye for an eye. Or in this case, tire.

When the front tire blew out, she couldn't stop fast enough. She lost control and spun, bike moving perpendicular to the street, but managed to hold on until she was almost stopped, falling off and letting the bike slide a few meters. The Corvette had disappeared again, but she could still hear the roar of its engine, beginning to fade. But with the sound of squealing tires and metal scraping asphalt for a finale, that roar cut out with a sudden bang.

Too sudden.

He was still nearby.

Scrambling to her feet, Naomi rushed towards the direction she'd heard the noise. The area they were in now seemed very run down, mostly industrial, mostly abandoned. Taking a shortcut down the nearest alley, she hopped a fence and caught sight of shined black in a warehouse garage across the way. She broke into a run, gun still drawn, and closed the distance just as a figure emerged from the entrance. Upon spotting her he immediately retreated, but she was almost on top of him then.

"Freeze!" seemed to be the appropriate thing to say, but like he was going to listen to her after all that just happened. He drew his own gun and raised it, not nearly fast enough; with all the grace that Capoeira allowed she struck out in a snapkick, the toe of her boot smashing into his wrist hard enough to send the gun across the room. He withdrew with a hiss of pain, backing against the wall and holding the injured wrist tight through thick gloves. She pointed her gun.

"Don't move, damnit!"

She couldn't even see his eyes behind those sweat-fogged lenses, and he probably couldn't see much, either. For several seconds they simply stood panting, both examining their surroundings; her body blocked the only exit, and the garage seemed empty of anything that could be used as a weapon. She had him cornered.

"Put your hands up."

He obliged.

"Why did you run?" When he didn't answer, she took a step closer, levelling the gun at his head and keeping both hands firmly on her weapon. "Answer me."

"I like your bike."

She blinked both at the comment and his bizarre accent. "What?"

"Suzuki Hayabusa, am I right? I prefer those to the Hondas."

"Stop screwing around!"

But he just smiled, tilting his head slightly, and she couldn't tell if he was looking at or past her.

"You opened fire on an FBI Agent. Don't you understand how much trouble you're in?"

The hammer of a gun clicked just behind her head.

"Do _you?_"

Naomi froze.

This was _not_ exactly as planned.

"Drop the gun."

She could put up a fight. She could potentially turn and knock the gun from his hand, if she was fast enough, and if she _really_ wanted to, she could shoot him before he could shoot her. But she needed both of them alive, whoever these men were, if she expected to progress with the case.

She could also get her brains plastered across the faux fur vest she was staring at.

"Drop it," the husky voice demanded.

Naomi obliged, then lifted her hands in the same way as the redhead in front of her. At this he breathed a sigh of relief, slightly exaggerated, and dropped his arms, beginning to rub his injured wrist again. She could tell now that he was looking past her, smiling in greeting at the second gunman. In spite of all that just happened, he looked as innocent as a child right now.

"You sure know how to fuck up a perfectly good car," the man behind her grumbled, earning another shrug from Gogglesman. Cold metal pressed against Naomi's neck where the nape met the base of her skull.

"Who are you?"

_Stay calm._

"Naomi Misora."

"A little strange for an FBI agent to be acting alone, isn't it?" Tight leather squeaked as his grip on the gun tightened. "Care to explain?"

She hesitated, and her voice wavered when she spoke; she wasn't sure if she was saying it to scare them, or to convince them that she was an ally.

"L sent me."

Gogglesman froze, expression becoming unreadable, and for some reason she expected the man behind her to look about the same.

The next thing she knew she was on the floor, vision flickering as pain exploded in the back of her head with a loud crack.

"Don't even _fucking_ joke about that!"

A strong hand grabbed her by her jacket's collar and pulled her up, forcing her towards the redhead, who somehow got both of her wrists in one hand in less than a second. He slung his other arm around her neck, and it wasn't until then that she realized just how thin this guy was. She almost shrieked when the back of her head collided with his chin, sending another bolt of pain through her; but she remained determined, clamping her jaw shut and expressing her pain through a choked grunt instead.

"I'm not-- ...??" Confusion crossed her face when she gazed past the barrel of the gun and gaped at the owner of the deep, threatening voice she had just heard. _You're a girl?!_

"Cut the crap. We know better." He (??) took a step forward, and Naomi tensed.

"Careful, she bites," Gogglesman warned. Glancing down at her legs, the blonde stepped back again, out of kicking range. Ice blue eyes stayed locked on her lower half for far longer than what was decent -- and then he aimed his gun at her knees.

"L sent me to find Matt and Mello!"

_That_ got a reaction. The blonde practically dropped his gun in shock, eyes and mouth widening to almost comical proportions. A confused noise came from the back of his throat, and his brow furrowed, eyes glancing towards his comrade in befuddlement. Whoever these two were, they knew exactly who she was looking for.

"Why?" came the puzzled question, and it sounded as if it had come from the mouth of a child. Naomi felt like she was starting to get the upperhand.

"That is sensitive information, meant for their ears only." She hesitated when the two exchanged glances again. "All I want is to be able to get in touch with them."

"Why should we believe you?"

"Is there anything else that makes sense?"

The blonde returned his gaze to hers, expression becoming unreadable, and he eased the hammer on the gun. Naomi held her breath.

"...She's lying. Strip her."

"What?! No--!" But the hands that were restraining her were already working off her jacket, feeling her through the blouse she wore underneath. Panic began to settle in once again as those hands roamed further downwards, paying particular attention to her rear--

"You're being tracked, aren't you?" the blonde calmly said more than asked.

"Huh?"

Oh. So it wasn't sexual.

"Cellphone," the redhead muttered, retrieving the device from her back pocket and tossing it to the blonde. Naomi drew a sharp breath and jerked forwards to try and grab it back. A mistake; both men tensed at her alarm, and she realized she was only making them more suspicious.

"I need that--" She paused, feeling the grip around her wrists tighten. "..It's my only connection to L."

"You keep throwing that name around like--..??" The blonde stopped, staring at the phone. "..There's only one number in it."

"That's it! That's his number!"

Silence.

"Call it! You'll see--" She snapped her mouth shut, her expression turning to one of hesitation and something like horror. Giving L's number out to just anyone was a very stupid idea -- what was she _thinking?_

The blonde glanced at his comrade again in another unspoken exchange. It was like the two had some kind of telepathic link.

"Can't hurt," the redhead muttered with a shrug. The other man hit the call button and brought the phone up to his ear.

"Wait!"

Silence. Almost. Naomi could just barely hear the phone ringing. After two rings it seemed to stop without even so much as a click, and true silence overcame the trio. The blonde said nothing, but waited, maybe expecting to hear the dial tone, to hear that the person on the other end had hung up on him. A few seconds more and he pulled the phone from his ear, his eyebrows drawing upwards in a sort of I-told-you-so expression, his thumb moving to 'end call' --

"Naomi Misora?"

The blonde lurched back suddenly as if the phone had just erupted into flames, sending the device spiralling across the floor in the opposite direction of the gun. Upon impact with the floor, the static crackling of a bad signal seemed to explode from the speakers, signifying that speakerphone was accidentally activated.

"Are you there, Naomi Misora?"

The men's reactions to the electronic voice reminded Naomi of frightened cats; both stiffened, eyes wide, shoulders tensed and raised, and she imagined if they were covered in fur (well, one almost was) that it would be standing straight up in fear. Their eyes darted from the phone to each other repeatedly, neither seeming to know what to do, whether to respond or run. Another look, and they simultaneously decided on the latter; in the next second Naomi felt her weight return to her body, the unyielding arms that had restrained her before disappearing without so much as a warning, and she stumbled in her effort to catch herself.

"What about the car?"

"Fuck the car!"

"But..!"

Naomi glanced up to see the redhead hesitate mid-step, glancing back at what they were leaving behind, but he followed his comrade without any further protest. She started after them but quickly thought better of it when her equilibrium gave out, sending her down on one knee and leaving her with a feeling of light-headedness.

"Naomi Misora, please say something. Are you alright?"

The room seemed to spin a little, stomach turning with a hint of nausea. She closed her eyes and took a moment to stablize herself, willing the throbbing pain in her head to go away.

"I'm fine. Hold on a sec, you're on speaker...speakerphone."

The line was quiet for as long as she needed to right herself and retrieve her phone. Switching speakerphone off, she delicately put the phone to her ear and leaned against the wall, resting her forehead against her hand.

"Sorry. I ran into a little trouble."

"Are you safe?

"I'm...fine," she repeated, sounding a little less sure of herself. "I found two guys who know the ones you're looking for -- they're obviously tied to Matt and Mello, somehow, but they ended up attacking me. When I mentioned you, they turned aggressive -- and when they heard...well..." She sighed. "They heard you speak, L, and they got spooked and ran off."

"...I see. Do you need medical assistance? I can send for someone to pick you up."

She hesitated a moment, gauging her current physical condition versus how badly she wanted to get back at those guys for what they did.

"...No. I'd rather stay on the case."

"Very well," L replied calmly. "In that case, let us not waste any more time. Please return to the import store as soon as possible."

Naomi nodded despite the conversation occuring over the telephone, and immediately regretted it when the nausea came rushing back. It seemed to be abating for the most part, however, and perhaps so long as she didn't turn her head too suddenly, she'd be able to walk just fine. Call a tow-truck or something for her bike, get a taxi back to Little India -- something like that.

"At least we're making progress, right? We'll find them soon enough," she offered optimistically.

"Oh, we've found them. Give me thirty minutes. No, fifteen."

Naomi smiled.


End file.
